Stanford Derailed
by SleepyGirl27
Summary: Sam's plans to go to Stanford are derailed. AU I suppose. Warning - pretty dark. Deals with torture.
1. Chapter 1

_I don't own these characters. I'm just using them for fun._

_..._

_If you walk out that door, don't bother coming back_.

The words echoed through Sam Winchester's head like a bell. He hadn't wanted to leave like this. He hadn't wanted to alienate his family. What choice did he have? He wanted a different life. He wanted a normal life. He wanted to go to school. He wanted to see what was good in the world. Lord knows, he'd seen plenty of what was bad.

Sam was given the chance of a lifetime. He'd been offered a full ride to Stanford. How could he pass that up? And how could his father resent him so much for not wanting to pass it up? His father made his position clear the moment Sam had shown him the golden ticket he'd received. The ticket came in the form of a letter from Stanford informing him of his scholarship award. His father looked at the letter, but didn't cast a glance in Sam's direction before simply saying, "No."

Sam had been crushed, but he wasn't surprised. He had expected such a response from his father, but part of him held onto the hope that his father would be happy for him. Somewhere in his mind he held onto the hope that his father would pat him on the back and tell him how proud he was. Nevertheless, he had prepared himself for the response he had expected rather than the response he had hoped for. He had bought his bus pass ahead of time and packed what few belongings he had.

Sam wiped away the morning dew from the dirty window of the bus and watched the landscape rush by outside. Tears stung his eyes as he thought about the horrible words he'd exchanged with his father the night before. He wished he could take some of it back. The look on his father's face was both infuriating and heartbreaking. After all the years of fighting with his father over the life he'd forced them to lead, it finally dawned on Sam that his father would never understand and would never change his mind. He'd never felt so alone.

Then there was Dean. His brother had been sitting there, listening to the argument with a frightened and hurt expression, but he never said a word. Sam didn't want to hurt his brother. Contrary to what one might think, given the awful things he'd said, he really hadn't wanted to hurt his father either.

"_I'm going. I'm eighteen. You can't stop me."_ Sam had never felt so afraid in his life. He'd battled demons and angry spirits alongside his father and his brother, but somehow, waiting for his father's next words frightened him more than anything he'd ever faced.

"_If you walk out that door, don't bother coming back_." His father's words had been like a punch in the gut. Sam was suddenly very alone. His father had asked him to choose between his family and his future, and the choice he made left him more alone than he could have ever thought possible.

The look on Dean's face as Sam had turned to leave haunted Sam.

"_Sam, wait…"_ It was all Dean had said. Sam looked at his brother and fought with everything he had not to break down into tears. He couldn't speak. Not without losing the battle against his emotions. He walked out the door and didn't look back.

...

Dean caught the bartender's eye and raised his empty beer bottle, "Another, please."

The beer wasn't doing its job tonight. Dean had come to the bar with the intention of drinking himself into temporary amnesia, but it wasn't working. The image of his brother walking out the door was etched in his memory, and it wasn't going anywhere.

The house had been silent after the door slammed shut. His father sat down at the table and stared at the wall. Dean knew enough not to say anything. He couldn't be there. His father wasn't going to be in the talking mood for a long time, and he didn't want to sit in awkward silence. So here he was, hours later, trying without success to drown his memory.

Dean had been shocked when he saw Sam come down the stairs of the old abandoned home they'd been squatting in. He had his duffel packed, and he looked like he was ready to hit the road.

"_You going somewhere, Sammy?"_

Sam had only responded to Dean's question with a cursory glance before he approached his father and placed a letter in front of him. Dad didn't act surprised or upset. He was calm. Scary calm. It was almost a whisper. Dean almost didn't hear it.

"_No_."

That one word set off an explosion. The tension in the room rose to a level Dean couldn't have cut through with a machete. His curiosity had gotten the best of him and he reached for the letter himself. An award letter. Full scholarship to Stanford. Dean's heart sank. Sam was leaving them. He knew his father wouldn't give him his blessing. He also knew Sam wouldn't let that keep him from going.

Dean had always been afraid that this would happen. Sam had fought their father tooth-and-nail over everything under the sun since the day he learned to speak. He knew it was only a matter of time before Sam's desire to lead a normal life took him away from them.

John Winchester was not a bad man, but Sam didn't see it that way. Sam saw their father as the man who never gave them a normal life. He saw their father as the man who would stand in the way of his dreams. He didn't see what Dean saw. He didn't see the agony their father endured every day of his life. Sam had only been a baby the night their mother was murdered. Sam didn't know their father before that day. Sam didn't know how that night changed their father. Dean had seen it all. He understood in a way that Sam would never be able to.

Dean had tried with every fiber of his being to keep the awful truths of their childhood from Sam. When their father shut off, Dean tried to pick up the slack. He tried to be a presence in Sam's life where the presence of both their parents was missing. He had tried his best, but it wasn't enough. Sam needed more. He needed normalcy. Part of Dean couldn't blame his little brother for wanting something more. A larger part of him resented Sam for wanting so badly to abandon the family that Dean was fighting so hard to save.

"Want another, honey?" The voice of the bartender snapped Dean out of his stupor. Dean plastered a smile on his face.

"No thanks, sweetheart. I've had enough."

Dean looked at the empty bottle in his hand. He knew his father well enough to know that this night would never again be discussed. _Leave it behind, Dean. Sam's gone._ _Back to business as usual…. there's evil out there waiting to be killed._ Dean left the bar and vowed never to think of this night again.

...

Sam half awoke to the sound of the bus doors opening and people getting out of their seats. The sound of the bus driver's voice bellowing over the crowd brought him fully awake.

"Rest stop. Back on the road in 10."

He looked through the window at the tiny gas station where they'd stopped. Judging by the number of people crowding into the station from the bus, there would be a line for the bathroom. Sam thought of waiting for the next rest stop, but the pressure on his bladder quickly changed his mind.

He stood and stretched. He wasn't sure how long he'd been traveling, but his muscles ached from sleeping in an awkward position. He exited the bus and looked around. The gas station was a pit in the middle of the big Nevada desert. Sam looked through the dusty gas station window and confirmed his guess. There was a line for the bathroom.

Screw that.

He made his way around the back of the gas station, out of sight from the rest of the passengers. He found a bush and proceeded to empty his bladder. The desert was beautiful. The sun was setting and it cast a yellow glow across the horizon. Sam inhaled deeply. He had almost succeeded in forgetting the night before.

_What am I doing?_ Sam was scared. He'd never been alone. He'd never felt so unsure about the future. Had he made a mistake? His father and Dean were all that he had in this world, and he'd just vanquished them from his life. His stomach roiled in fear.

As he turned to walk back to the bus, he suddenly got an eerie sensation that he was being watched. He turned around, but saw no one there. Sam flushed as he realized he was letting himself get scared of the boogie man now that his big brother and his father were no longer there to protect him. Just as he was about to laugh at that, he felt an incredible pain at the back of his head, and the lights went out.

...

As Sam drifted toward consciousness, he became aware of a few things. First, his head was killing him. Second, he couldn't seem to move his limbs, and third, he was blind. The third was the most disturbing. He blinked several times, but there was only blackness. It felt like his eyes were still closed. He blinked several more times but still wasn't able to see anything. He attempted to lift his arm so that he could rub his eyes, but his arms were being held down by something. He realized they were tied down. He seemed to be sitting in a chair, and from what he could feel, his hands were tied to the arms. His legs were also immobile and seemed to be tied to the chair's legs. Panic started to creep its way through the fog of his brain.

Frustrated at his lack of ability to move or see, he decided to try his voice.

"Hello?" His voice, although a mere raspy whisper, seemed to still be intact. He cleared his throat and tried again. "Hello?"

His calls were met by an unnerving silence. He tried to remember everything that had led him to this point. He was at the gas station. He'd taken a leak. Then pain. Then nothing.

Sam had been in his fair share of sticky situations before. It came with the territory given the nature of work his family was involved in. In the past, however, his father and his brother had always been close by when a sticky situation arose. No matter what happened, Sam knew his father and his brother would come through for him. But this time they weren't close by. This time they didn't know where he was.

For the first time in his life, Sam was truly afraid.

A new sound quickly grabbed Sam's attention. It was the sound of a lock being unlocked, followed by the sound of a door opening. A thin sliver of light suddenly appeared on the floor, framing a doorway directly in front of him. Sam's relief at the sight was immeasurable. He wasn't blind. His relief was short-lived when the door in front of him opened, and the room was flooded with blinding light. He closed his eyes against the offensive, blinding brightness. The ache in his head suddenly became much more pronounced.

"Sammyboy. Great to see you're finally awake!" the voice addressing him belonged to a woman. The voice was anything but friendly. Sam could hear mocking and menace behind the words.

He slowly opened his eyes and squinted up at the woman standing in front of him. She was tall with long, straight black hair. Her skin was pale. She wore clothing that hugged her body tightly. Too tightly. The most distinguishing feature about her, however, were her eyes. They were black.

"You're a demon," Sam whispered. He immediately felt stupid for blurting out such a dumb comment. He hadn't meant to say it out loud. He had only seen a few demons in his time. His father usually tried to keep him and Dean away from the hunts that involved demons.

The demon raised an eyebrow. "They say you're the smart one in the family," she said sarcastically. "Wow."

Sam felt his cheeks grow hot with embarrassment. "What do you want with me?"

She smiled at Sam in a way that made the hair on the back of his neck stand up. "We just want to have some fun, Sammy."

Sam felt his stomach knot. He was terrified. The fact that the demon had said "we" hadn't escaped his attention. She continued to smile at him as two more figures emerged from behind her. It was two men. Both were large, and both had black, soulless eyes that matched those of the demon in front of him.

"If you know me, then you know my dad and my brother will be looking for me," Sam tried to keep his voice strong, but he could hear it quivering.

"Oh, Sam, don't lie. It's not nice," the lady demon said slowly. It was almost a purr. "We know daddy dearest and big brother think you're on your way to school. We've been waiting for a chance like this."

Without warning, one of the men swung a fist at Sam's face. The power of the blow snapped Sam's head backward, and he hit his head on the back of the chair. The double-blow left him dazed. Just as quickly, the other man began to untie Sam's legs from the chair. After his legs were freed, he untied Sam's arms.

"Get up," the woman demanded. Sam stood uneasily. His head was still swimming from the blow, and his legs were uneasy after sitting for so long. After he stood, one of the men grabbed the chair and took it out of the room.

The woman smiled at Sam again, and raised a hand in his direction. He was suddenly thrown across the small room. When he hit the wall, it felt like every bone in his body shattered. He bounced off the wall and landed on the floor. As soon as he landed, he was picked up again by an invisible force and thrown against another one of the four walls of the small room. When he hit the ground again, he heard a cackle of laughter erupt from the woman.

"Oh we are going to have so much fun, Sammyboy!" she laughed.

Sam struggled to lift himself off the ground, but found the effort was a waste as he was again picked up and thrown against a wall. This time, instead of falling to the floor, the invisible force held him against the wall. Sam had ridden the Gravitron at a county fair when he was little. It was a ride that spun so fast that gravity pinned you against the wall and made it hard to move. Being pinned to the wall by this invisible force felt almost exactly the same. His limbs wouldn't cooperate and he felt an enormous weight against his chest.

The female demon walked toward him menacingly. She stared him straight in the face.

"What do you want with me," Sam managed to ask between his labored breaths.

"We want to kill you," the woman said angrily. "But we can't. We aren't allowed. You belong to Azazel. He told us not to kill you, but he never told us we couldn't have any fun with you."

Sam thought briefly that the woman was off her rocker. He had no idea what she was talking about. "I think you have the wrong guy," Sam said stiffly.

Amusement crossed the woman's face, and her shoulders started to shake. She suddenly burst out laughing.

"Oh my, that is classic," she said, wiping a tear of laughter away from her eye. She turned to look at her comrades. "He thinks we have the wrong guy."

She turned back to Sam and held out her arm again. Her face suddenly became hard and angry as she mimicked a chocking gesture with her hand. Sam suddenly felt an enormous pressure on his neck and he couldn't breathe.

"We've definitely got the right guy, Sam Winchester," she said vehemently. "You might not know it yet, but you've been chosen for something big. Something much bigger than any human should be chosen for."

She released her hold on Sam, and he fell bonelessly to the floor. As he gasped for breath, the two men approached him and started kicking at his stomach, his legs, his chest, and his head. Sam tried without success to deflect the blows. He became resigned to the fact that they were intent on hurting him and he could do nothing about it.

Just as suddenly as it had started, the kicking stopped. Sam looked up to see the woman approaching. She carried something in her hands, and Sam felt bile rise in the back of his throat. He knew what it was. He'd seen one used as a torture device in a movie. It was a cattle prod.


	2. Chapter 2

I don't own these characters. Just using them for fun :)

...

Most people, when they think about time, think about lack of time. Sam used to think about lack of time. There never seemed to be enough hours in the day to do the things he wanted. Get up, go to school, do some sparring practice with Dean, do homework, go to bed. There never seemed to be time for anything else.

Time takes on an entirely different meaning when the hours become too long. When there is no way to measure time, it becomes too maddening to try to think about how much time is passing. When there is nothing to do but lay in your own filth and think about the life you used to know, time becomes irrelevant.

Sam had long ago given up on trying to figure out how long he'd been held captive in this tiny room. He gave that up almost immediately. There was no light, so he never knew whether it was day or night. His captors held no regular schedule. They came to torment him when they pleased. The sessions had become fewer and farther between. Not that he minded. The pain those sessions brought never got better. He'd been beaten, burned, electrocuted, and thrown around more times than he could count.

Shortly after his captivity began, his captors brought him a large bucket of water. Sam guessed that was more for the purpose of keeping him alive than an act of mercy. Occasionally they slid what he could only guess was a moldy piece of bread under the door. At first, he refused the disgusting offering. After awhile, he treasured every morsel. It's funny what hunger will do to a person. After an unknown period of time, his captors brought him an empty bucket. It didn't take him long to figure out the bucket was meant for his waste. He guessed they were getting tired of the smell.

Using the bucket, or even getting himself to go to the door for his rare bread scraps, was becoming more and more difficult. His strength was waning, and Sam often wondered if he was dying. Most of the time, he laid on the hard concrete and wished for the sweet escape of sleep. He wished he could sleep all the time. Sleep brought an escape from his world. It was a warm embrace that shielded him from a harsh, cold reality. He wondered how different death would be, and he wondered if he would be better off giving up his fight to stay alive. If death was as sweet an escape as sleep, then why hang onto life?

When he wasn't sleeping, Sam was alone with his thoughts. He thought about his father and he thought about Dean. He often wondered what they were doing. Were they looking for him? Did they even know he wasn't at school? He hadn't given them any contact information before he left.

Sometimes he thought about his childhood and what he'd learned through the years from his father and his brother. They had been teaching him how to survive for longer than he could remember. They had taught him a lot, but nothing they had taught him had prepared him for this.

Escape from the small room was impossible. He learned that early on. Except for the bucket of water, there was nothing in the room. No windows, no closets, no bed, no furniture. He could see nothing, so he felt his way around. He had gotten pretty good at getting along without his sight. Not that there was anything to see here. The only time he was able to see anything was when his captors came to visit. The pain of the light was almost as unbearable as the torture they inflicted upon him.

Turning his thoughts again to his father, he thought for the hundredth time about the argument he'd had the last time he'd seen him. How much would he love to go back in time and take back the words he'd spoken. He'd accused him of being a horrible father. What if those were the last words his father would ever hear from him? That isn't how he wanted to leave things. He had been in such a hurry to get out of the life he was living, but now he would give anything to see his father and Dean again.

...

"Dean, down!" Dean hit the ground at the sound of his father's command. A shot fired and the angry spirit that had been lurking behind him vanished. John and Dean had succeeded in digging up the spirit's bones and were ready to set fire to them when the spirit had suddenly appeared and attempted to thwart their efforts.

John finished pouring salt and gasoline over the bones, and Dean lit a match and threw it into the deep grave.

"So much for an easy night," Dean deadpanned as they watched the flames.

"Wasn't so bad," John responded solemnly.

Dean smiled inwardly at that. To anyone else, a night like this would lead to a lifetime of therapy. To the Winchesters, it was business as usual.

Business as usual. The last few months hadn't felt like business as usual. After Sam had walked out, John and Dean had resumed their everyday fight against all things that go bump in the night, but everything was different. There was an emptiness that neither Dean nor his father would talk about. It was eating at Dean. Would it always be this hard?

Dean had decided to deal with Sam's absence by telling himself that he hated him for leaving them. Sam had done this. It was Sam's fault. He'd left a hole in their lives. Dean hadn't heard a word from his brother since the night he left three months ago.

_Good riddance_.

Dean flinched at that thought. It wasn't how he truly felt, but it was what he told himself to keep moving forward. _Forget him. He's gone._

"You with me, Spaceboy?" John's voice drew Dean away from his thoughts.

"What?"

"I asked if you wanted to stop for a couple. You tired? We can go back to the motel." John was watching Dean carefully.

"Nah, I could go for a couple," Dean plastered a smile on his face. "You know I would never turn down the chance to knock a couple back with the old man."

"Watch who you're calling old man," John warned, but he offset his threat with a smile.

The tavern they chose was a dump, but the beer was cold and the music was loud. Dean challenged a couple of townies to a game of pool while John poured over his journal. Dean had downplayed his talent at the game, of course. As he collected his hustled earnings, he beamed with pride.

"Pleasure doing business with you, girls," Dean mocked. One of the men looked at him venomously, and Dean laughed. He turned to make sure his father had his back, just in case, but was surprised to see that the table his father had occupied was now empty. All that remained was a half-empty beer bottle.

Dean looked around and spotted his father through the window. John was standing in the parking lot, talking on the phone. He put his beer down and pocketed his earnings. He grabbed his jacket and put it on as he went outside to join his father. He was only able to catch the tail-end of his father's phone conversation.

"… are you sure he's talking about _our_ Sam?"

Dean froze in his tracks. Sam? What about Sam? Sam was gone. Off to school to learn to be a normal person.

"….we can be there by tomorrow afternoon."

Dean watched his father expectantly as he pocketed his cell phone.

"It's probably nothing, Dean," John started. "Bobby called. He said he's got a demon in a devil's trap. When he started to exorcise him, the demon started babbling about knowing where Sam is. That's all the demon would say. Bobby's going to hold him until we get there."

"But we know where Sam is…" Dean was trying to hold onto the knowledge that Sam was safe at Stanford. Probably holed-up in the library studying like the geek he is. Sam had left them for that life. Sam had chosen to leave them. Sam hadn't so much as written a letter or picked up the phone in three months….

"Dad?" Worry washed over Dean. Sam was in trouble. He could see it in his father's eyes.

"It's probably nothing, Dean," John repeated. "It's a demon. Demons lie. I'm sure it isn't Sam. Sam is at Stanford."

"Yeah," Dean said dryly.

Silently, father and son climbed into the '67 Impala and hit the road.

...

It was noon when John and Dean neared Bobby's homestead. The 13-hour drive had been made in almost complete silence. Dean's head had been racing, and he couldn't sleep. His father had feigned sleep when it was Dean's turn to drive, but Dean knew that he wasn't really sleeping. He'd heard his father's sleep enough times to know the sound of his snoring. Dean almost jumped out of his skin when his father finally did speak.

"I didn't mean what I told him," John's voice was strained. "I didn't mean to tell him that he couldn't come back. I was just so angry. There isn't a day that goes by that I don't wish for a way to go back in time and erase those words."

Dean glanced at his father. He looked so small. His eyes were haunted. Dean didn't know what he could possibly say, so he chose not to speak.

"I'll never forgive myself if something's happened to him," John's voice cracked. John Winchester never said what was on his mind. Nor did he admit to his mistakes. Dean couldn't take it.

"It's not your fault," Dean tried to keep his voice even. "Sam chose to leave. He knew the risks of being on his own, and he chose to leave anyway."

John looked at Dean. He was on the verge of tears, and Dean couldn't bear to see it.

"He didn't know everything," John whispered.

"What do you mean?"

"The yellow-eyed demon," Dean barely heard his father. His voice was a whisper. "It's the demon that killed your mother. He came for your brother that night. There's something about Sam…."

Dean's stomach was slowly turning to ice. What was his father talking about? His father's voice suddenly turned angry.

"I tried to keep it from you boys," John whispered. "I didn't want to scare you. I didn't want to scare Sam. I thought I could protect him from whatever it is they have planned for him."

John cleared his throat and sat up a little. His voice evened out slightly as he attempted to sound all-business. "The yellow-eyed demon did something to Sam the night that your mother died, and it's got all the other demons talking. Bobby knows about it. He's been helping me try to find answers."

John paused for a few moments, then continued.

"Two years ago we trapped a demon, and the demon started talking about the coming war and how…" John's voice cracked again "….how they were going to follow my son to victory."

Silence filled the car. Dean's mind was racing.

"I tried to keep him close to us, safe," John continued, "but I got frustrated. I practically pushed him out the door. I pushed him right into their claws.

"Bobby told me he heard another hunter talking last year about a demon that was spewing nonsense. The demon said there was a human out there who was destined to be a leader in a demonic war. He said there were other demons that didn't want to see it happen. They want to take him down." John took a deep breath, and Dean could hear the tremble in his exhale. "We can't be sure they're talking about Sam, but it seems pretty likely."

Dean didn't know what to say. Suddenly, the idea of his brother safe at Stanford seemed like the furthest thing from reality.

"Sam isn't at Stanford, is he?" Dean fought to keep his voice even.

"I hope he is. I hope this is all just a nightmare and I'm off my rocker. I hope he's at Stanford, away from all this," John was looking up the road as they approached Bobby's homestead. "But I'm afraid we're about to learn otherwise."

...

Bobby opened the door as John and Dean approached.

"The demon's been quiet. I haven't been poking for any more information. Thought I'd better wait for you before I asked him about…" Bobby's voice trailed off as he looked at Dean.

"He knows," John said, catching Bobby's hesitation.

Bobby looked at Dean. His eyes were pinched with sympathy. "I'm sorry, son."

"What has the demon told you?" Dean tried to avoid talking about the fact that his father and Bobby had kept him in the dark about this. He didn't want to let on that his insides were boiling with anger. His little brother was in the deepest pile of crap anyone could ever dream of getting themselves into, and no one had bothered to mention it to him.

"I started the exorcism, and he told me I should stop if I wanted to find Sam," Bobby said. "It could just be a trick. He might just be trying to weasel his way out of a sticky situation, but I didn't want to take the chance."

Dean walked into the foyer and stared at the man the demon possessed. He was in his mid to late 30s with dark hair. He was wearing a pair of khakis and a button-up shirt. He was tied to a chair under Bobby's devil's trap. His head was bowed low, but as Dean approached, he raised his head. He stared at Dean with his black eyes, and he smiled.

"Well, how about that? I thought this bozo was entertaining," the demon started, nodding toward Bobby. "But looky who we have here. It's the Winchester boys. Well…two of them anyway. I must say the two of you look a lot better than baby Winchester. I'm afraid he's a bit out of sorts these days."

Something in Dean snapped. The realization that Sam was in trouble and not safely tucked away at school made his mind spin. Everything he'd thought he'd known over the last three months was gone in a flash. He had let himself be mad at Sam for everything that had happened. He had been mad at Sam for not being in touch, when he should have been concerned.

"Where is Sam?" Dean demanded.

"He's tucked away in a little hiding space. A bunch of us check in with him from time to time. We like to take turns playing with him. We all have our favorite ways to play. I'm a big fan of electricity, but a lot of the others like fire. Some of them just like to use the fists of the meatsuits they wear," the demon seemed to be taking immense pleasure with the effect his words had on his audience. He smiled as he continued. "He hasn't been as much fun to play with lately. I think he's getting a little tired."

"You son of a bitch," Dean lunged at the demon, blind with fury, and blindly threw one punch after another. His fists seemed to move of their own volition. Suddenly he was grabbed from behind and dragged backward.

"Dean, stop," John yelled as he held Dean around the chest. "This isn't going to help anything."

Dean let himself be pulled away and he moved aside to let his father speak to the creature.

"Where is Sam?" John's voice was calm and his face was stoic. Dean couldn't believe this was the same man who had been falling apart in front of him only minutes earlier in the Impala.

"We decided to have some fun with him," the demon said with a sly smile on his face. The smile disappeared and the demon suddenly became angry. "Not all of us are keen on the idea of following a human into war. We wanted him dead, but that wasn't an option."

The demon smiled as the lines of rage appeared on John's face. He continued nonchalantly. "I'm not stupid. I wouldn't be telling you this if we didn't actually want him to be found. We're done with him. He isn't any fun to play with anymore. He barely even screams. Since we can't kill him, no one really knows what to do with him anymore. We didn't really think that far ahead."

"Where is he?" John's face was red, and his voice was shaking. Dean didn't dare to come closer or speak up. For the first time, Dean actually felt afraid of his father.

The demon smiled and laughed a little bit. He leaned forward and looked straight into John's face. "Let me out of here, and I'll tell you exactly where you're little brat is."

...

The sound of the door unlocking caused Sam to instinctively curl in on himself and cover his eyes. It had been a long time since his captors had come to see him, and he had foolishly wondered if they had forgotten about him. The thought was both comforting and terrifying. He couldn't decide which was worse, the torture, or the idea of slowly waiting for death in this dark prison.

Sam heard the door open and tried his hardest to block the light out. He heard the click of heals as one of his captors entered the room. By the sound of the shoes, he guessed it was the woman.

"Bread," she said bluntly as he heard the thump of something hit the ground. "We're gonna miss you, Sammy."

Sam stayed quiet, expecting her to continue. This was new. What was she talking about? Were they going to set him free?

"It's time for us to leave," she said. Sam could hear a hint of regret in her voice. "I'd love to kill you, but Azazel wouldn't like that. He'd send me to hell in a heartbeat."

Sam let himself feel hopeful. Could it be over just like that?

"Don't get too excited yet, Sammyboy," Meg said. "We have a going away present for you."

Sam was confused, but continued to feel hopeful. He was finally going to be freed. It was over. He felt his heart sink, however, when he heard the unmistakable sound of the firing up of the blow torch. They'd burned him with it several times before, and he knew the sound well. They weren't going to set him free without making him suffer one last time.

...

Dean had a hard time believing it would be this easy to find Sam. As promised, the devil sang the details about where Sam was being held as soon as Bobby let him out of the trap. He gave precise directions. MapQuest couldn't have been more detailed. According to the demon, Sam was being held in the basement of a cabin in the foothills of the Glacier mountains of Montana. It was only about a half day's drive from Bobby's place.

They wasted no time getting on the road. Bobby took the lead in his truck, and Dean and his father followed in the Impala. Dean felt his anxiety rise with every passing mile. He felt helpless sitting in the passenger seat, and he couldn't stop fidgeting. It felt like the car was moving at an impossibly slow pace, and Dean kept checking the speedometer.

"Dammit, Dean, stop it," John chastised when he caught Dean checking the speedometer for the hundredth time. "We're pushing 90. We go any faster and I'll be arrested on the spot if we're pulled over. That's not gonna help anything."

"Sorry," Dean said. He stole a glance at his father. John was just as scared as he was. Dean could see it in his eyes.

"What do you think the demon meant about not being able to kill Sam?" Dean asked. He felt a stab of pain in his chest at the question. "Not that I'm complaining. I'm thrilled to death to hear that Sammy's alive, but I'm a little confused."

"I really don't know," John answered. "I'm just as baffled as you. But I'm thankful. I just want to find him and get him to safety. Demons can't be trusted. I'm just praying he's there and alive."

...

Sam lay in agony and prayed for sleep. The last visit from his captors had been the worst he'd had. After the woman burned him with the torch, one of the men came in and started kicking and punching. His ribs and back felt like they were on fire, and his eye was swollen shut. When he had thought he couldn't take any more, they came in with the cattle prod. Each time they pressed it into his skin, he screamed in agony. It was a horrible pain. Sam shivered with the horrible memory.

They had said it was a parting gift. They were leaving. Was he going to be left here to die alone? He thought he had run out of tears long ago, but now he had a new fear. He felt so alone. The loneliness was a physical ache that was more than the lingering pain of the beating he'd received earlier. He was going to die alone in the dark.

He didn't know how much time had passed, but he felt himself growing more and more cold. Maybe he was going into shock. Maybe this was what it felt like to die. He was finding it harder and harder to focus on a single thought. Resigned to the fact that he was going to die in this dark hole, Sam shut himself off. He closed his eyes and retreated into the deepest recesses of his mind.

...

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	3. Chapter 3

I don't own these characters.

I realize this fic is very dark. I'm adding a warning to the story. Hope I don't offend anyone!

...

It was a cloudy, dark night and the headlights of the Impala sparsely lit the desolate cabin. Dean was ready to charge in, guns blazing, but John held him back.

"It could be a trap, Dean," John chastised. "We go in together. Carefully."

Bobby stood guard outside while John and Dean quietly moved in. The cabin was small. There was a main living room area with a kitchen to the left and what appeared to be two bedrooms on the right. John nodded to Dean to check one of the bedrooms while he headed for the other.

Dean kept his gun at ready as he crept quietly into one of the bedrooms. There was a bed that looked like it hadn't been slept in for a very long time. It held a tattered mattress with no linens. Dean spotted a closet to the right and moved in slowly. He jumped in, gun drawn, but the closet was empty.

Satisfied that his designated bedroom was secure, he moved back out to the main living area. His father was emerging from the other bedroom at the same time. He nodded to Dean and Dean nodded back, acknowledging that everything was secure.

John nodded to a third doorway. Dean moved forward and placed himself on one side of the door while John positioned himself on the other. At John's nod, Dean flung the door open and the two of them took aim into the doorway.

The door led to a staircase that led down to a cellar. John took point and moved slowly down the stairs. Dean followed closely behind. At the base of the stairs, there was a single light bulb with a chain hanging from it. John yanked on the chain, and the room was illuminated with a dull, yellow light.

Dean felt a chunk of ice settle in his stomach as he took in his surroundings. The basement was bare except for a single table that held an assortment of instruments coated in blood. Dean felt the bile rise to the back of his throat as he identified a few knives, a blow torch, and what looked like a cattle prod.

He cast a wary glance to his father. John's face was ghost white, and he looked like he was about to toss his cookies. He seemed to know Dean was staring at him as he nodded toward the other end of the cellar. Dean looked in the direction of his father's nod and noticed another door.

Father and son moved quickly across the cellar. Again they took positions on either side of the door. At his father's nod, Dean turned the handle. As he pulled the door open, his father lunged inside and Dean followed immediately behind him.

The sight that greeted them turned Dean's blood to ice. Bile rose at the back of his throat at the stench in the room, and he fought tears at the sight of the beaten, bloody figure curled up on the floor. It didn't look like Sam. The figure curled up in the corner was a skeleton. He had on only a pair of boxer shorts. His body was covered in cuts, burn marks, dirt, and bruises. Some of the bruises looked old, and some looked fresh. His body shook visibly, and he covered his head with his bony arms.

"Oh my God," Dean looked at his father when he heard the whispered curse. His father's face was a mask of agony. His eyes were glassy with unshed tears.

Dean was about to run to Sam, but John caught him by the arm.

"Be careful," John cautioned.

Dean nodded and moved forward slowly.

"Sam?" Dean prodded softly. He was afraid to touch the trembling form. "Sammy?"

At the sound of his voice, Sam seemed to cower even further into himself. He didn't remove his arms from around his head. He seemed to be trying to shield himself from the light, and Dean cursed inwardly. He thought briefly about asking his father to turn out the light from the other room, but they needed to be able to see.

"I'm sorry, Sam," Dean tried to keep his voice gentle. "I know the light hurts, but we need to be able to see you."

Dean received no response from the cowering form in the corner of the room. He bit his lower lip. This was going to be difficult.

"Sam, I want to help you, okay? I want to see where you're hurt, so I'm going to touch you."

Dean reached forward and ghosted his fingers across Sam's shoulder. Sam let out a long, low cry and cowered impossibly further into himself.

"I'm not going to hurt you, Sammy. I promise." Dean took hold of one of Sam's wrists to try to pull it away from his face. The response was electric. Sam began to scream an awful, guttural scream and turned his body toward the wall. As he did, Dean got a better look at the condition of his brother's back and it brought tears to his eyes. He could see every bone of Sam's spinal cord. There was a myriad of bruises lining his ribs and spine. Horrid burn marks lined his skin, and at some places the skin was so badly burned that Dean could see that layers of skin had given way to the muscle underneath. There were also deep cuts that looked consistent with the use of a whip.

Dean swallowed the urge to reach out and pull his brother into a deep hug. He fought the tears that stung at his eyes. "It's okay, Sam. I'm sorry. I won't do that again."

He turned to look at his father. He was at a loss. "How do we get him out of here?"

John looked like he was in a trance. His eyes were wet with unshed tears, and he was frozen in place. His eyes remained locked on Sam.

Dean began to panic. He needed his father's help to get Sam out of this dungeon, and his father was flipping out on him.

"Dad!"

John jumped slightly and finally looked at Dean.

"How do we get him out of here?" Dean asked pleadingly.

John's mask of horror disappeared quickly and he turned all business. He moved forward and knelt beside Dean.

"Sam," John said in his no-nonsense tone. It was the tone of voice he reserved for his boys when he was giving a command.

Dean watched Sam, hoping his father's stern voice would get through to his little brother, but Sam didn't respond. He simply cowered into himself impossibly further.

"What do we do, Dad?" Dean could hear the pleading tone in his own voice, and he hated himself for feeling so useless.

"We wait it out," John said. "Go tell Bobby we'll be here awhile."

...

John couldn't take his eyes off his youngest as he huddled in the corner like an abused animal. Sam still hadn't turned to face them. He hugged himself against the wall, keeping his back to them. John guessed it had been close to three hours that they'd been sitting on the floor waiting for Sam to make any sort of move.

As he watched his little boy cower in the corner, he catalogued the injuries he could see. The worst of the injuries seemed to be burns that had torn away the flesh on several parts of Sam's back and arms. John guessed there would be similar burns on the front of his body. The other injuries, in comparison, seemed superficial. There were several cuts and bruises. Many of the bruises lined his rib cage, and John wondered what sort of damage had been done to his ribs.

John felt even more concerned over the skeletal appearance of his boy. Sam had always been a rather skinny kid, but now he was skeletal. It looked as though Sam's bones would poke through his skin at any moment.

His stomach burned with hate. To the demons who had done this to his son, it was a game. Sam was simply a play thing. John wanted to tear their limbs from their bodies. He wanted to torture them slowly before sending them back to hell, one by one.

John was still puzzled over the fact that the demons hadn't finished Sam off. The demon they'd spoken to at Bobby's almost seemed anxious for them to find Sam. John had been afraid it was a trap, but that didn't seem to be the case. He wondered how powerful the yellow-eyed demon must be if he had that sort of influence over the other demons. And why did the yellow-eyed demon want Sam? What were his plans for John's baby boy?

John closed his eyes and rubbed his calloused hands over his face. If only he'd tried to reason with Sam rather than pushing him out the door. What had he been thinking, telling Sam to stay gone? He'd been angry and scared. John didn't do scared very well. It was one of those emotions he tried very hard to bury.

"Dad..."

Dean's hushed call broke John from his reverie. He glanced up in time to see Sam slowly turn away from the wall. His head was still bowed low, and he had a hand raised in front of his face to try to shield his sensitive eyes from the light.

John flinched at the sight of Sam's arm. There were more burns that John hadn't been able to see before. More blood. And John could see the bones and tendons move in Sam's arm as he moved his hand. There wasn't an ounce of fat on the boy's body. All of his reserves were gone.

"Sammy..." Dean pled with Sam as he turned toward them.

"Take it easy, Dean," John said softly.

Finally, Sam lowered his arm, and John and Dean were able to see his face. He had more cuts and bruises on his cheeks and forehead. His cheekbones jutted out and made his cheeks look hollow.

John gasped as he looked into Sam's eyes. One of his eyes was swollen shut, but John wasn't concerned about that. It was the look in Sam's good eye that really worried him.

He'd seen his share of comrades in war who had seen too much and shut down. The light went from their eyes and they looked like walking dead. They rarely recovered. Most of them became vegetables, living out the rest of their lives in loony bins and nursing homes. The light was gone from Sam's eyes, and he looked the same as several of the comrades John counted as dead. He'd written those comrades off years ago, believing they would never return from the place inside where they'd shut themselves off.

John let a noise escape from his throat and tried his damnedest not to shed the tears that were pooling in his eyes. He fought with every fiber of his being to keep from throwing himself at his son and begging for forgiveness.

Dean moved toward Sam slowly, and John fought the urge to tell Dean to back off. He was terrified of pushing Sam too far, too fast. Reason told him, however, that they had to get Sam out of this hellhole and start nursing him back to health. He had no doubt they could fix what was wrong with Sam physically. He prayed they would be able to bring Sam's mind back as well.

...

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	4. Chapter 4

_So sorry it's taken so long to get this update out! Hope you like it!_

_I don't own these characters._

_

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__Sam let the blackness surround him. He wrapped himself up in it like it was a warm blanket. He was finally safe. He was in a place where they couldn't touch him. It was quiet here. It was peaceful. The light outside was the enemy, and he tried to keep himself away from it._

"...Sam, can you hear me?"

_That voice again. Voices in the head. That was a sure sign of crazy. He was crazy. Bet his dad would be proud of him now. Let the demons get the drop on him. _

_That voice though...it sounded like Dean's. Did the demons possess Dean now?_

_A smell drifted into the air around him and it made him pull himself away from the darkness momentarily. The darkness was sweet and warm and comfortable, but the smell drove the hunger inside him to force his body to act against his will._

_Jerky? Was that jerky? He remembered beef jerky. Dad had it in the glove compartment all the time. A quick fix to a growling tummy. Jerky smells funny, but it smells good. Strong. A quick fix to a growling tummy._

"C'mon, Sam, I know you're hungry..."

_That voice again. It was definitely Dean's voice. These men hadn't hurt him yet. Maybe they were stuck here too. Maybe the demons were keeping them here. Jerky. The jerky smells good. They have jerky. Jerky is a quick fix to a growling tummy. Maybe just a bite? No...no...don't take it away. Just a bite. No no no no no no no no no no don't touch me. Don't touch me. Jerky...jerky...quick fix to a growling tummy..._

...

Dean frowned as he watched Sam sniff the air. The jerky had been his dad's idea. He had run out to the car and grabbed it from the glove compartment.

Sam had been acting like a scared, sick animal. Animals responded to food.

Dean held the jerky out again and Sam moved forward slowly. His good eye was unfocused and it darted around nervously, not settling in any one spot for long.

As Sam moved further forward, Dean moved away, coaxing Sam out of the corner. Carefully, he reached out and gently touched Sam's arm. He immediately regretted the action as he watched Sam shrink back from the touch, making an awkward, frightened sound. He curled back into the corner, but his eye locked on the jerky. It was the first time Dean had seen Sam focus on anything since they found him here hours earlier.

Dean held the jerky up again and Sam again moved forward. Dean tore off a piece of the jerky and held it out to Sam. He held back a startled gasp as Sam quickly snatched the piece from his hand and backed himself into the corner again. Sam stuffed the jerky into his mouth and barely chewed before he swallowed.

Dean tried to keep his emotions in check. It was killing him to see his brother like this. Sam was acting like a scared dog. He couldn't recognize the cowering figure in front of him as the strong, intelligent brother he knew so well.

Dean almost didn't notice as Sam slowly crept forward again. This time, Sam's eye was focused on Dean. Dean tried to keep his gaze steady. He smiled slightly and held the jerky out to Sam again. Sam snatched the jerky, but this time, he didn't move back to the corner.

Before Dean could stop him, Sam stuffed the entire piece of jerky into his mouth. He chewed a few times and swallowed the entire lump with a huge gulp. Immediately, his face turned green, and as Dean knew would happen, the jerky came immediately back up. Sam leaned over and heaved. His entire frame shook. Dean watched the tremors run through his brother's body as he retched.

He reached forward to put a comforting hand on Sam's shoulder, but his father stopped him.

"Wait, Dean," John whispered. His eyes were tortured as he watched his youngest. "Give it a minute. He'll wear himself out."

True to John's predictions, Sam was soon heaving, drawing deep breaths in as though he'd just finished a marathon. He cast a wary glance toward Dean and John before he collapsed into a weary heap on the floor.

"Now," John said.

Dean didn't need any more coaxing. He moved immediately forward and placed a hand on Sam's back. He could feel Sam's ribs under his hand as Sam breathed slowly, seemingly in a deep sleep.

Dean watched wordlessly as John moved forward and placed his hand on Sam's head. He leaned forward and scooped Sam up, one arm under Sam's arms and the other behind his knees. Sam's limbs flopped limply and his head flopped back as John stood. Sam's height made the action awkward, but Dean could see that John was barely straining under the weight of his little brother. The kid was skin and bones.

Dean ran ahead, clearing the way for his father and opening the door for him. He watched Bobby perk up as they exited the cabin. He looked shocked as he took in the horrible state of the youngest Winchester.

Dean brushed past him and opened the back door to the Impala. He climbed in and waited for John to load Sam into the back seat. Dean pulled Sam into his lap as Bobby appeared beside John with a blanket. The blanket was spread over Sam's shivering, near naked form.

John moved to the front of the car and Dean heard their short discussion. The hospital was mentioned and debated, but it was finally decided that Bobby's would be best. They would deal with Sam's injuries on their own. A hospital would yield too many questions.

Dean didn't take his eyes from Sam's face as he listened to the conversation. He gently brushed Sam's hair away from his dirt-crusted forehead. Sam looked so innocent in his sleep. He remembered watching Sam sleep when he was little. Sam would climb into Dean's lap, and Dean would tell him a story. Soon Sam would drift off, and Dean would watch him for a long time before he drifted off himself. There was something peaceful about watching his baby brother sleep.

Dean tried not to think of the circumstances that led to Sam's current state of deep sleep. Instead, he concentrated on how still and quiet and peaceful he looked. It was a welcome change to the feral, terrified look his brother wore earlier.

John climbed into the car and Dean finally tore his gaze away from his brother's sleeping form to look at his father.

"We're heading to Bobby's," John said quietly, turning slightly to stare at Dean. "Bobby's going to ask a friend of his to come and check him out. He's a doctor."

Dean nodded, but said nothing. He could see the pained expression his father wore and wanted to say something to make him feel better. John was feeling guilty. He could see it in his face. His eyes held a haunted expression that Dean was sure would never completely go away. It was similar to the expression he wore for months after Dean's mother died. The expression had faded somewhat, but it had remained a permanent dark speck in his father's eye.

John turned away from Dean and started the car. Dean tightened his hold on Sam as he studied his little brother's bruised face. He was starting to come down from the adrenaline rush of finding his brother, and he felt his eyelids start to droop. He leaned his head back and relaxed, though he kept his grip on his brother firm. He let the purr of the Impala's engine and the gentle rocking motion of the car's trek over the uneven terrain of the dirt road lull him to sleep.

...

It was closing in on noon by the time they had Sam back to Bobby's place and settled into one of the rooms upstairs. Bobby had called ahead to his friend and the doctor had met them at the homestead shortly after they'd arrived.

Dean liked Doctor Steven Greenway immediately after he met him. He didn't look like a typical doctor. His weathered face, wiry beard, and hard stare gave him a gruff appearance that rivaled Bobby's. The doctor seemed to sense Dean's desire to stay close to his brother and made no attempt to brush him aside. Instead, he asked for Dean's assistance as he assessed Sam's injuries.

Dean had to fight the nausea that threatened him as he watched the doctor poke and prod at the numerous injuries that littered Sam's body. The worst injuries, by far, were the burns. The doctor was careful as he assessed their severity.

As Sam started to stir, the doctor withdrew a syringe and some medication from his bag. Dean's stomach did a flip-flop. Despite the fact that he liked the guy, he was far from trusting him where his brother was concerned.

"Wait, what's that?" Dean said as Dr. Greenway pulled the plunger back and drew the medication into the needle. He tried to keep the fear from his voice and pinned the doctor with a deadly glare.

"This is a sedative," Dr. Greenway answered without looking in Dean's direction. "I'm going to have to clean and dress your brother's injuries. The process will be painful, particularly on the burns."

Sensing Dean's distrust, the doctor stopped what he was doing and stared pointedly at Dean. "But if you think that's a bad idea, by all means, please tell me. I don't like it, but I can work without the sedative so long as you can hold your brother down for me and don't mind all the screaming."

Dean swallowed convulsively and backed down. Maybe he didn't like this doctor as much as he originally thought. He got the doctor's message, though, loud and clear. Back off and let him do his job.

"No," Dean said quietly. "Please. Just help him."

The doctor nodded and gave a weak smile before he injected the sedative into Sam's arm.

"Bobby," Dr. Greenway said casually. "If your tub is as dirty as the rest of your house, I think you better get to work on cleaning it. There is some disinfectant in my bag. The bathroom needs to be as clean and sterile as possible before we use the tub to clean him up."

Dean watched Bobby obediently take the disinfectant from the doctor's bag and step silently from the room. John stayed in the doorway of the bedroom for a few moments longer, watching Sam in a way that made Dean's heart break. His eyes met Dean's for a moment before he turned away and walked in the direction of the bathroom.

The process of cleaning and dressing Sam's wounds was almost unbearable to watch. Dean tried to swallow the lump in his throat as he watched the doctor work. He handed the doctor the items that he asked for as he asked for them and kept quiet. He helped the doctor carry Sam's limp body from the tub back to the bedroom. Bobby had put some clean new sheets on the bed. Dean watched the doctor dress Sam's wounds with an expertise that amazed him. The Winchesters were no strangers to cleaning and dressing wounds, but Dean felt their work had been barbaric next to the professional detail the doctor put into his work. He was very glad to have the man there.

As the doctor was finishing up the last of the dressings, Dean felt the need to fill the silence.

"How do you know Bobby?" Dean asked quietly. Bobby and his father had disappeared from the room almost immediately after the doctor had started to dress the wounds. He hoped they were getting some sleep.

"About 10 years ago, I moved my family into a house in Wyoming when I took a new job there." The doctor said. He kept his eyes on his work and seemed to be avoiding Dean's stare. "The house was haunted. Bobby helped."

Dean could sense there was more to the story, but he chose not to push. He'd been around evil enough to see how it could ruin people's lives and leave gaping wounds that never fully healed.

"That should about do it for now," Dr. Greenway said quietly. He gave one last check of his work and nodded his approval. "I've got supplies in my truck to set up an IV line for him. We need to make sure he stays hydrated. I've also got some Ensure for you to feed him."

Dr. Greenway leveled Dean with a stare before he continued.

"You'll need to be careful and feed him slowly," he said. "Don't overdo it. The Ensure will give him the nutrients he needs for now and shouldn't react too harshly with his stomach. I'll be back to check on him tomorrow."

Dean looked away for a moment and felt his gut clench. He didn't want to ask his next question.

"What if we can't get him to drink it?" Dean asked quietly. He didn't want to explain to the doctor the condition his brother had been in when he was found. He didn't want to explain to him that he wasn't sure if he could get close enough to his brother to help him drink anything.

Thankfully, the doctor seemed to know the track Dean's mind was on and spared Dean from having to go into detail. "If he won't take food by mouth, I'll set him up with a feeding tube."

"Thank you, Dr. Greenway," Dean whispered. "Really."

Dr. Greenway smiled warmly at Dean. "You can call me Steve."

...

John sat in Bobby's dining room and nursed a glass of whiskey. He could feel Bobby staring at him across the table. Neither of them had spoken for the better part of an hour. Bobby finally cleared his throat, and John cringed at the conversation that was coming. He wanted to forget. He wanted to not think about the condition of the bruised and beaten skeleton upstairs that used to be his youngest. He didn't want to voice his fears that Sam might still be with them in body, but no longer in mind.

"Do you think they'll come back for him?"

Bobby's question surprised John. He hadn't been expecting it. He was so wrapped up in the condition of his son, he'd almost forgotten about the circumstances that led him there. Almost.

"I don't think so," John said quietly. "But I don't think we should take any chances."

Bobby nodded. "I'll put up a few more wards and make sure everything's as secure as I can get it."

Bobby seemed to hesitate, and John could sense he had something else to say.

"Spill it," John said finally, though he had a feeling he didn't want to hear it.

"I'm sure you know what's coming," Bobby said quietly. "Steve's a great doctor. I know he can fix Sam's injuries. But he ain't a shrink. And I think we both know those demon's are bound to have broken more than Sam's body."

"I know," John said quietly.

He could tell that Bobby was bracing himself for a more violent and angry response from John. His friend knew him well. In truth, John was fighting the urge to take his frustration out on his friend. He wanted to yell and scream that, yes, he was very well aware of the fact that his son was probably more screwed up in the head than any of them could imagine. A person couldn't go through that kind of hell and come out unscathed. He was scared to death and at a loss as to how on earth he would begin to try to bring his son back from hell on earth and try to convince him that everything was okay when he himself was pretty sure that everything was very much NOT okay. That was assuming that Sam would ever recover enough to be able to even comprehend reason. He was scared to death that his son was lost to them forever.

John felt his tenuous grip on his emotions snap, and he threw the glass of whiskey against the wall. He watched with slight satisfaction as the glass shattered and the contents ran down the wall with tiny shards of glass. He felt a pain bubble up from his stomach, through his chest. The pain came out in a frustrated scream and he leaned forward and buried his face in his hands and he did something he had only done once before in his adult life. He sobbed.

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	5. Chapter 5

Dean adjusted his body for the millionth time in the old recliner he'd brought into Sam's room. He was waiting patiently for his brother to wake up. He was anxious to help Sam on his road to recovery, but he was scared to death about how Sam would react to his surroundings when he awoke.

Dean had been watching Sam sleep for hours, and he still couldn't get over the condition of his baby brother. The worst of his injuries were covered in bandages, but the bruises were still visible all over Sam's skeletal form. Sam didn't look the same. He looked like a shell of his former self. His sunken cheekbones made his face look sickly. Every bone in his body stood out sharply.

Dean had to look away. It was too much to bear for any significant length of time. Even after all these hours of keeping vigil. He wondered, not for the first time, about the horrors that his brother had endured over the past three months. He'd been angry at Sam for so long, and he hated himself for it. He'd been pissed that Sam hadn't called or written him, but he should have been worried. He should have followed him and made sure he got to school okay.

He shouldn't have let him leave in the first place.

Dean sighed and cast a glance at his brother. He nearly screamed in alarm when he saw his brother staring back at him. He scooted forward in the chair but tried not to approach too quickly, remembering the awful reaction when he approached Sam the last time.

"Sammy?" Dean's voice was scratchy from disuse.

Sam stared at Dean but didn't move. There was a blankness in his stare that scared Dean. He wasn't all there. Dean moved a little closer, but Sam didn't react. He continued to stare at Dean with the same vacant expression. Dean steeled himself for the reaction he was afraid he would get, but decided to chance touching his brother. He moved forward and touched Sam's arm. Surprisingly, Sam didn't react. He continued to stare at Dean without so much as flinching.

Dean stood up, and Sam's gaze followed him. He felt torn. He wanted to alert his father that Sam was awake, but he didn't want to leave his brother's side. He moved slowly to the doorway of the room but didn't take his eyes from his brother. Sam's blank stare continued to follow him.

"Dad!" Dean yelled and hoped he wouldn't startle his brother. Sam didn't flinch, but his stare continued. Dean felt slightly unnerved by the way Sam wouldn't take his eyes off him.

He moved back toward the bed and watched his brother track his movements.

"Good to see you awake, Sam." Dean reached out to touch Sam's face and was again surprised that his brother didn't so much as flinch.

"Dean?" Dean turned to see his father standing in the doorway to Sam's room, a panicked expression on his face.

"He's awake," Dean said softly.

John walked slowly into the room, followed closely by Bobby. Dean held his breath and braced himself for any number of reactions from his brother. He was surprised to see Sam's stare finally leave his brother and find his father.

"Has he said anything?" John whispered.

"Nothing," Dean said.

"Sam?" John moved forward slowly, and Sam tracked his movements carefully. "Son, you're safe now. You're at Bobby's."

Sam continued to stare blankly, as though he wasn't even registering his father's words.

John reached out, and Dean noted that his father's hand was shaking. He touched Sam's forehead lightly. Sam closed his eyes briefly, but he didn't react. He opened his eyes and looked at John. Dean could swear there was a hint of an expression there, but he couldn't identify it.

"I'll call Steve," Bobby said quietly. He left the room quickly, but Dean didn't think Sam really ever even knew he was there to begin with. He still seemed out of it. Like he wasn't completely there. It was making Dean crazy.

"We should try to get him to eat something," John whispered. He didn't take his eyes off his youngest. Sam watched John carefully then his gaze shifted to Dean as Dean reached for one of the cans of Ensure that the doctor had left.

Dean approached Sam carefully. He held the can up to Sam's mouth.

"Drink," Dean said softly. He tipped the can up to his brother's lips. Sam took a tentative sip, and his face suddenly looked ravenous. He grabbed for the can and began to drink greedily. Dean pulled the can back, and Sam fought him for more.

"Slowly, Sammy," Dean said as he batted Sam's flailing arms away. "You'll get sick."

John repositioned himself behind Sam and held his boy against his body. He wrapped one strong arm around Sam's tiny torso, pinning his arms down, and used his other hand to brace Sam's head against his shoulder.

Dean moved forward again with the can and held it up to Sam's mouth. Sam closed his eyes as the liquid ran down his throat. Dean's stomach clenched. He tried not to think about how long it had probably been since Sam had eaten anything. He wished he could offer Sam an entire buffet of food and let him eat to his heart's content, but he knew Sam needed to take it easy so that he didn't get sick.

When the can was finally empty, he set it on the bedside table. Sam looked at it longingly for a long moment before he closed his eyes and leaned back on his father's shoulder. John closed his eyes and took a deep breath. He reached a hand up and stroked Sam's hair until his son's breathing evened out and it was obvious he was asleep. Dean watched carefully. He had never seen his father act like this before. He didn't know if it came from guilt or if his actions were born of a gratefulness that his son was alive. Either way, Dean was happy to see his father and his brother taking comfort in each other. It was something he hadn't seen since Sam was very young.

* * *

As Dr. Steve Greenhouse moved toward his old friend's home, he took a deep breath. Bobby had called him to let him know his patient was awake. He'd dressed the boy's injuries and knew the kid had been through a horrific ordeal. There was no way he would come out of it unscathed. The scarring from the burns would be minimal for the most part, but there were a few places on his body where he would carry scars forever.

Steve knew the emotional scars would be something else entirely, and that was way out of his realm of expertise. He wasn't a shrink. Far from it, in fact. He had his own emotional scars he had never properly dealt with.

Then there was Dean. The kid reminded him so much of his little Matthew that it made him want to scream. He imagined that if Matthew had lived to see adulthood, he would have been just like Dean. He had the same protectiveness over his little brother that Matthew had for his family.

Watching the Winchesters was bringing back memories of his family. Painful memories. It had been several years since the fire that had taken his family from him. He had been foolish not to listen to Bobby's warning.

When Bobby had shown up on his doorstep all those years ago, he'd written him off as a crazy old bat. He'd even called the cops on him. His wife had begged him to reconsider. She knew something was wrong with that house. He hadn't wanted to believe it. His life was all about facts that could be backed scientifically. He hadn't wanted to believe there were things out there he couldn't understand.

His family had paid the price with their lives. He had come home from work to a smoldering wreckage where his house had once been. Just like that, his family was gone.

Steve took a deep breath. He had spent years trying to bury the memories. Bobby had helped. Once Steve knew the truth, he'd drunk himself into a stupor and lost his medical license. Bobby introduced him to the hunting community. There was an entire army of people who needed medical attention without the questions that a hospital visit brought with it. Some people he was able to help. Others he wasn't. He prayed he was able to help Sam. He liked this family and wanted more than anything to bring them good news.

Remembering the injuries he'd tended to yesterday and the torture they implied, he was afraid Sam was going to be a lost cause.


	6. Chapter 6

Sorry this and the last chapter are so short. And SO sorry it took me sooooo long to get them up.

Don't own these characters.

* * *

John sat with his back against the wall and his baby boy asleep on his chest. He watched the doctor examine Sam's injuries. He checked the dressings carefully. Sam didn't stir, and John wondered whether it was because his son was still too out of it or if it was because the doctor was so careful. He could see in the doctor's eyes that he had his own baggage. The man had seen horrible things in his time, of that John was sure.

There was a certain look a man has when they've seen things most people can't dream up in their worst nightmares.

Steve looked up toward John, about to say something, but he stopped as he looked at Sam. Startled, John looked down and found his son was awake. Sam stared at the doctor with the same quiet, creepy expression he'd worn when he'd woken up earlier. The look in his eyes make John's skin crawl. He didn't want to think that his son was so far gone that no one was home upstairs, but the picture looked bleak.

"Sam?" John whispered cautiously. Sam's eyes didn't leave the doctor. He didn't so much as blink in John's direction.

John gently eased himself out from underneath his son and laid him down flat on the bed. Sam's stare drifted toward the ceiling and stayed there. John tried again.

"Sammy, say something, please." John tried not to let himself sound desperate, but he failed.

Sam continued to stare at the ceiling. There was no trace of recognition in his face as John spoke.

"You said he drank the Ensure?" The doctor didn't take his eyes from Sam as he asked the question.

"Yes," John said softly. "He became very insistent on drinking it, in fact. Do you think that's a good sign?"

The doctor shrugged and looked away. John cringed. He knew the doctor didn't hold out any hope for his son. He could see it in the doctor's demeanor. Part of him hated the doctor for giving up hope on his son. Part of him couldn't blame the man. If Sammy weren't his boy, he would have written him off the moment he saw him. The thought made his stomach turn.

Steve cleared his throat and seemed to try to choose his words very carefully.

"I'm not a shrink, John, but I've seen this before," he looked hesitant to continue. "There are just some things that the mind can't handle. It shuts off.

"The fact that he drank is good, but it doesn't give me any confidence that his mind is with us. The body knows what it needs to survive, and that will drive behavior. Much like a kitten instinctively knows where it needs to go for milk."

"That's bullshit!"

John and the doctor both startled and turned toward the doorway where an irate Dean stood with his fists balled at his sides.

"He's fine. He'll be fine," Dean said with a shaky voice.

Dean's eyes met John's and John could see that he didn't completely believe his own words. Dean took a deep breath as if to say something else, then seemed to think better of it as he turned and stormed down the hall. Moments later, John heard the front door slam shut.

"We'll give it time, John," the doctor said sympathetically. "I hope to God I'm wrong, but you might want to think about finding a long term care facility. I know of a few. I can give you some names."

John held his hand up, silently begging the doctor to stop. He found it hard to stand, so he sunk down into the chair next to Sam's bed.

"I'll be back in the morning," Steve said quietly. He put a comforting hand on John's shoulder as he passed by.

John closed his eyes for a moment before he looked back at Sam. His son was still staring at the ceiling. He knew the doctor was right. Sam was gone.

* * *

Dean kicked at the rocks in the salvage yard as he put as much distance between himself and the house as he could. He felt like a belligerent little kid, but he didn't care. He knew they were right. He knew Sam wasn't right the moment he'd looked into his eyes. He'd tried so hard to tell himself that Sam would snap out of it. The truth was, he didn't see his little brother when he looked at the broken figure on that bed.

"Oh God, Sammy," Dean cried at the ground. "I'm so sorry, little brother. I'm so sorry."

* * *

Sam could vaguely hear voices disturbing his quiet. It was maddening. Why couldn't they leave him alone? He had finally found the warm, sweet embrace of the darkness again. He had lost it for awhile, and it had scared him. He didn't want to lose it again. He tried to shut everything else out. He didn't want anything to tear him away from his darkness. It was his. It wrapped around him like a warm embrace.

"Sam."

Unlike the other voices, this one wasn't the least bit familiar, but it sounded close. Much closer than the other voices.

"Leave! This is my space! You can't have it!" Sam had no idea where his rant was directed. He didn't think he even said it out loud, but the voice heard it.

"You need to snap out of it, Sam," The voice continued. It sounded even closer than before, and Sam started to panic. "I need my soldier in good fighting form. This slobbery catatonic mess just won't do."

Startled, Sam looked around. The voice was invading his space. It wasn't off in the distance like the other voices. It was right here inside his head.

Finally Sam saw him. The figure that belonged to the voice. The man smiled as he looked at Sam and suddenly he was much closer. Right in Sam's face. Sam gasped as he looked at the man's eyes. There was something strange about them…

"That's it, Sam. Come on. You're stronger than this, kid."

The man's smile never left his face. He had a cat-ate-the-canary smile that drove Sam nuts. He finally realized what was strange about the man's eyes. They were yellow.


End file.
